Not a Trinket
by Mrs. Son of Coul
Summary: Agent Coulson is asked about an out-of-place object on his desk. NOTE: I think this will be very emotional for some; at least it was for me, as this is roughly based on a true story.


**November 6, 2012**

**8:57 PM MDT**

**S.h.i.e.l.d. Headquarters, Mojave Desert, Arizona**

"Sir? What's that trinket on your desk?"

Agent Coulson followed the ensign's gaze to the metal necklace carefully placed beside the plaque bearing his name. The pink thing appeared cheap, and the heart-shaped trinket had lost its gloss over the years.

Coulson was silent.

". . . Sir?"

The agent turned towards the window, and looked past his reflection into the new darkness . . .

. . . _and saw the streetlights of Brooklyn flickering on one by one._

_ It was his first promenade. The Mercer High Promenade Hosted by the Graduating Class of 1952._

_ He had waited until he was a senior to attend – most of his studies were behind him now. More time to concentrate on his date for the night._

_ He stopped in front of Carolyn's house._

_ His heart sank._

_ The porch light was off._

_ He could hear the muffled radio in the family room._

_ Phil adjusted his tie and resisted the urge to check his reflection in the large window._

_ He swiftly ascended the stairs and knocked on the door._

_ And waited._

_ A moth circled about his ear. He batted it away._

_ The door slowly opened a crack._

_ A squeal._

_ "Mom!"_

_ Phil found himself grinning and relaxed a bit._

_ Mrs. Crandall came to the door and smiled uneasily, opening it wider._

_ "Won't you come in, Philip?"_

_ "Thank you, ma'am."_

_ The modest home had a lived-in feel, but Phil elected to stand, his right hand clasped about his left wrist._

_ "Carolyn, why don't you get ready?"_

_ The girl bounded giddily out of the room, singing out of tune snippets of hymns._

_ Mrs. Crandall sat heavily and was silent for a moment._

_ "Philip . . ."_

_ "Yes, ma'am?"_

_ "I . . . I appreciate this gesture . . . but you don't have to do this."_

_ His temples began to feel pressured and he could feel his pulse quicken and grow stronger with each beat._

_ "I asked Carolyn because I'd like to take her to the dance, Mrs. Crandall."_

_ "Who put you up to this?"_

_ "Ma'am?"_

_ "Was this Veronica Sweeny? Or Deliah McCord?"_

_ "No ma'am . . . I asked her for myself."_

_ She stared at him._

_ "Why?"_

_ "Because Carolyn is a sweet girl, an attentive student, and I'd like to take her to the dance."_

_ "And it had nothing to do with her . . . her . . ."_

_ "Down's Syndrome."_

_ Mrs. Crandall flinched._

_ "I'm sorry."_

_ "No, it's fine. It's just . . . did that influence your decision to ask her?"_

_ "Absolutely. She deserves this and . . ." He faltered. "I don't know if she'll ever have this chance again."_

_ The color drained from Mrs. Crandall's face._

_ "How did you know?"_

_ "My mother's a nurse. She . . ." He looked away. "She's around those passing all the time, but she only cries over children. She heard you tell the reverend at church. I . . . I forced the rest out of her. She didn't mean to tell."_

_ She stood._

_ "Who else knows?"_

_ "I didn't tell a soul."_

_ Tears washed the cheap rouge from her cheeks and she nodded._

_ "Thank you, Philip."_

_ "It's my pleasure, ma'am."_

_ "Momma, look at me."_

_ Carolyn waltzed into the room, sashaying awkwardly in heels barely an inch high. She spun around quickly, grinning widely._

_ "Am I pretty, mommy?"_

_ "You're always pretty, darling."_

_ She turned._

_ "Am I pretty, Phil?"_

_ He smiled, ignoring the piercing pain in his chest that came from knowing that smile wouldn't shine in less than six months._

_ "Perfectly beautiful, Carolyn."_

_ He shifted his weight nervously._

_ "I didn't know what color flower you'd like, so I brought you this."_

_ He pulled a bright pink necklace from his inner pocket, a heart-shaped charm the last to leave the coat._

_ "You found it!" She bounded forward and took it gently. "Where was it?"_

_ "I . . . I don't quite recall."_

_ It was a lie, and he hated to tell it, but didn't have the heart to tell her the truth: Veronica had thrown in it into the compost pile behind the cafeteria. It had taken him four hours to find it._

_ He took the necklace and fastened it behind her neck, being careful of her sandy curls._

_ "Thanks, Phil."_

_ He offered her his arm._

_ She took it and kissed her mother goodbye._

_ Two weeks later, Phil sat at his desk sobbing quietly over the necklace and a letter._

_The ache in his chest had never left him . . ._

. . . and he knew it never would.

"Sir?"

He turned slowly.

"It's not a trinket." He picked it up and stared at it.

"It's a memory."


End file.
